


A Matter of Love or Death

by bwblack



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack Treated Seriously, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15203942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwblack/pseuds/bwblack
Summary: A cursed Mycroft Holmes must find his one true love before his next birthday to avoid death.  Naturally, he's planning his funeral, among his many, many other duties.  Will love find him?  Set shortly after A Study in Pink.





	A Matter of Love or Death

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Trope-Bingo: AU Fairy Tale/Myth, Gen Prompt Bingo:Crack Treated Seriously and JWP #7 Weather... And when you put those three things together weird things happen in my head, apparently.

Mycroft Holmes ticked one more day off of his calendar. He smiled at the memory of his governess telling him that today was the first day of the rest of his life. He could not argue the point but it was far less of an affirmation now that his days numbered less than 50. Today was the first day of the last six weeks of his life.

He turned towards his desktop and began his day. He didn’t know what would happen to the world on the 46th day, but for the next six weeks he had work to do, looming threat of death or not.

5am- Conference Call.

6am- Review budget.

7am- Discuss budget with Prime Minister.

8am- Meet funeral director. 

9:30am- discuss arrangements with Sherlock.

11:00 am- discuss budget with HRH.

12:00 pm Lunch.

Well, maybe, given that time was drawing near he would allow himself an egg yolk at breakfast. They did so brighten up the plate. Or, maybe not. He’d worked hard to lose all the weight so that he wouldn't need extra pallbearers. It would be a pity to undo it all so close to the end. 

\--

Everything felt as if it were all going according to plan until his assistant walked in at 4:45 am. “Skinny triple Venti latte with only one pump of sugar free vanilla,” she handed him the drink. 

“Thank you,” he sighed, trying to put his finger on her chosen name of the day. He supposed his mind must really be more preoccupied than he would allow himself to admit. He usually had nearly instantaneous recall of her rotating name.

“It’s Portia today, sir. The 15th. Will there be anything else?”

“No, Judy, there will not be.”

Portia scowled. 

“My name is Mycroft. Your name is Judy. Really, your determination to use every name in the baby book from A to Z is absurd.” He couldn’t believe the worlds came out of his mouth. Sure, he’d thought them often enough. But everybody had their own hobbies and he certainly never begrudged her one, even if it was stupid. 

“Will that be all, Sir?” She nearly seethed. 

“Yes, thank you.”

Portia closed the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

Mycroft took a long drag of his latte and tried to shake off that odd moment of candor. It was early. He hadn’t slept that night. He had the rather unpleasant chore of studying the budget, and a potentially disastrous meeting with Sherlock to contend with. Anybody would be out of sorts.

He would send Portia some flowers to apologize.

He picked up his phone, “Yes, sir?” She said at once. 

He frowned and replaced the receiver at once. He usually asked her to do this sort of thing. He wasn’t sure he’d ever personally placed an order with the florist. It was nice, though, that his final days would have something new to them after all.

This thought cheered him as he picked up his mobile phone and conducted his call.

By the time he hung up, Portia had left a pristine copy of the budget on his desk. He opened the first page, took out a pen, and began making cuts. An hour later when Portia announced that the car was ready to take him to breakfast he’d made his way through the first 1000 pages. 

He picked up the book and took it with him, “How’d you find it, sir?” 

“Dreadfully dull,” he said out loud. _Dreadfully dull? What had gotten into him? The budget was certainly not a spy thriller, but it was important._

Dreadfully dull? Why would he say such a thing, even if it were true? Clearly he was having some sort of break down due to low blood sugar. It was a good thing he was on his way to breakfast. He thanked his assistant and went out to the car. 

He kept telling himself that things would improve drastically once he’d had a glass of orange juice. They got worse. When the waiter arrived to ask him what he wanted for breakfast he ordered not just the one whole egg he’d considered already but three, and a side of bacon. Bacon? If this kept up he’d be onto carbs by lunch time. 

He was so disturbed by his lack of moderation at breakfast that he hardly noticed himself telling the Prime Minister that his budget was the most stupidly ineffectual financial document he’d seen in 20 years at his job. It was true, of course, all of it. Money was slashed from essential services and given to unproven projects that by his estimation had less than a 4 percent chance of effectiveness. And he was being generous.

\--

John saw Mycroft standing by his car watching Sherlock dance around the newest victim in a spree of recent killings. He mentioned it to Sherlock. Sherlock waved him away without even looking up. John made his way to Mycroft, “He’s a bit busy.”

“Theatrics,” Mycroft shook his head. “He’s had it all worked out for 47 seconds, just putting on a bit of a show now, I should think. Well, I’ve had it all worked out for nearly a minute, so I assume anyway.”

“You’ve had it all worked out for a minute?”

“Nearly,” Mycroft looked at his watch, “Well, just past that now.”

“You haven’t been near the crime scene,” John frowned, “Have you?” 

“Near enough,” Mycroft countered.

“Right,” John nodded. He did not need to get into it with Mycroft Holmes, the man who made even less sense than Sherlock! He stood silently watching Mycroft make little patterns in the dirt with the nib of his umbrella. “Fine weather we’ve been having.”

“It rained for two hours this morning, sometime between two and four.”

“You were up?”

Mycroft scoffed, “Really, all this time working with Sherlock you haven’t picked up on anything useful? The markings left by my umbrella… the depth, the consistency of the ground beneath them…”

“Right,” John said again. He’d never much considered himself an idiot before meeting the brothers Holmes. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. People rarely notice the soil… I was discussing that very thing with my funeral director not an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My funeral director and I were discussing soil drainage with regards to the plot I am thinking of purchasing. He says one thing. I observed quite another when I went to look at the plot. I think I’ll set up an appointment at High Gate, it’s really lovely there, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never…”

“Oh, well, it’s nice and I haven’t much time left, do I?”

John was taken aback, “Are you ill?” Sherlock had mentioned weight loss but Mycroft didn’t seem sickly or gaunt. 

“I’m quite well, why do you ask?” 

“You haven’t much time to pick out your plot,” John felt himself growing frustrated with Mycroft. 

“Oh, right, I’ll be dead in 44.5 days,” Mycroft said as if it were something quite trivial.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, it is a bit inconvenient, but I can’t see how it’s your fault.”

“I meant…” John sighed.

“He’s cursed,” Sherlock explained. 

John jumped slightly, startled by Sherlock’s sudden appearance at their side.

“Your little friend is afraid of curses, Sherlock?”

Sherlock examined John, “It would seem so.” 

“I’m not…” John sighed, “I don’t believe in curses, and I find it rather unbelievable that either of you do.”

“Well, it’s hard to deny the validity of a curse while you are being cursed.” Mycroft smiled.

“And what is this curse?”

“If I do not find my one true love prior to my 45th birthday, I will die.”

“And you believe this?”

“All the other curses have been real, I have no reason to assume this one will be any different, the symptoms are starting.”

“Symptoms?” Sherlock perked up.

“Incessant truth telling, it would seem… rather inconvenient. I have a meeting with Herself later. I will have to find a way to be diplomatically truthful about her dogs and hat, lest I spend the remainder of my days locked in the Tower.”

“You get cursed often?”

“It is an occupational hazard,” Mycroft shrugged.

“People curse you wherever you go?”

“Well, just the one person, really.”

“You said multiple curses.”

“She’s persistent,” Mycroft turned his umbrella over and used a handkerchief to clean off the tip. 

“So you’re planning your funeral because dating isn’t going well.”

Mycroft’s expression darkened, “I don’t believe in true love.”

“But you believe in curses?”

“I’ve experienced one, not the other,” Mycroft pulled a small envelope from his attaché case and handed it to Sherlock. “My arrangements have yet to be completed.” 

Sherlock nodded, “Your hat is interesting?”

“Interesting is obvious, I’ll think of something… festive, maybe? It will, of course, depend on the hat.”

“And the dogs?”

“If I don’t see you next week, have my mail forwarded to the Tower,” Mycroft smiled before getting back into the car.

“He’s not serious?” John asked Sherlock.

“They no longer imprison people in the Tower; what would the tourists think?”

“About the curse?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing about it?”

Planning his funeral, “Sherlock held out the envelope, “revising his will.”

“And dating?”

“Why would he do something like that?” Sherlock asked looking completely perplexed. 

“To find his one true love.”

“What are the chances of that?” Sherlock looked towards the sky. “Rain? Has it rained?” He took out his phone and began typing frantically.

“For two hours between two and four.”

“Of course,” and he was gone so quickly John wasn’t sure what direction he’d taken off in.

“He didn’t happen to say what he was on to?” Lestrade asked a moment later while John was still trying to work out the last ten minutes of his life.

“No, something about rain.” 

Lestrade looked up towards the sky, “Beautiful day. Why was that bloke puttering around my crime scene with an umbrella?”

“That bloke?”

“The one mucking about in the dirt with an umbrella?” Lestrade nodded. 

“Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft? You don’t know Mycroft? He’s never kidnapped you?”

“No, has he kidnapped you?” Lestrade laughed.

“Yeah, once. Why hasn’t he kidnapped you?”

“Maybe he fancies you.”

“Doubt it; he doesn’t believe in love,” John said, still puzzled over the incongruity that a man could believe in curses but not in love.

“Oh, that sounds like a challenge. You wouldn’t happen to have his number?”

“Mycroft’s?”

“I’m sure I can find it, my job and all… but it’s not proper.”

“I’m not sure you could, actually.” John pulled out his cell and looked through previous calls and texts until he found one. He texted the number to Lestrade who looked up with a sly grin and walked back towards the body.

\--


End file.
